


Needs

by lookingforgrief



Category: Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Angst, Canon Compliant, Cunnilingus, Dream Sex, F/M, Halamshiral, Masturbation, Porn With Plot, Smut, Vaginal Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-08
Updated: 2017-10-08
Packaged: 2019-01-09 09:56:35
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,964
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12274047
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lookingforgrief/pseuds/lookingforgrief
Summary: Solas isn’t proud of it, but he has needs like any other person. Needs that were not, apparently, dampened by thousands of years he spent in uthenera. Needs that are…exacerbated by her presence in his life.“Her” being the Inquisitor.





	Needs

**Author's Note:**

> More or less canon-compliant. Set at some point after Wicked Eyes and Wicked Hearts but before What Pride Had Wrought.

Solas isn’t proud of it, but he has needs like any other person. Needs that were not, apparently, dampened by thousands of years he spent in uthenera. Needs that are…exacerbated by her presence in his life.

“Her” being the Inquisitor.

* * *

When he first met her, unconscious with his mark seared into her palm, he’d considered her little more than a curiosity. An unfortunate—albeit intriguing—consequence of his failed gambit to unlock his orb.

She was an anomaly, an unknown. Rather than rip the mark from her hand, he decided to study her. It was entirely possible, he hypothesized, that the mark would burn through her in a matter of days or weeks, leaving the magic within free for him to reclaim. In any event, he was relatively certain he wasn’t strong enough as he was to remove it without further fragmenting the orb’s power, and that was something he couldn’t risk.

Which is why he sought her out shortly after they arrived at Haven.

“How is the mark? Have you noticed any changes?” he asked.

She clenched her marked fist, but smiled at him. It softened her face, he thought. “No,” she said. “Not yet, at least. It is kind of you to inquire.”

“Of course. If that changes, please let me know. I’ve seen much in the Fade. If it begins to pain you, I may be able to alleviate some of your discomfort.”

He excused himself and left pondering the implications of their conversation. Assuming she was being truthful (and he had no reason to believe she was not), the mark appeared to be more stable than he had originally anticipated. It might be worthwhile to test its limitations, ideally with her participation and consent. Well, he planned on monitoring her condition in any case. She seemed friendly enough and was an elf besides. Surely it wouldn’t be hard to establish some kind of rapport such that she would be a willing participant in any experiments he wished to conduct.

Solas intended to seek her out the following afternoon, but she came to him instead.  To his surprise, she arrived at his cabin late in the morning. He watched her approach, studying the way she moved. Like a hunter, fluid and graceful, which wasn’t unexpected. She wore Andruil’s vallaslin, after all, and in their flight to Haven she had wielded her bow with expertise.

“Solas!” she called, waving her hand. “Am I interrupting?”

“No, no.  Please,” he said, waving her over in turn. “Is the mark paining you?”

“The mark?” She glanced at her hand, making a fist before releasing it. “No. I wanted to ask you about something else.”

Interesting. “By all means.”

“You mentioned that in your journeys to the Fade, you could see memories. History. Is that right?”

Much more than that, actually, but Solas was not about to disclose that information. “Yes. It is a localized skill, unfortunately. I can only access those memories that occurred near where my physical body is presently located.”

“That’s what I was hoping, actually. I thought you might be able to tell us more about Haven.”

She smiled at him again, and to Solas’ surprise he found himself charmed. He could entertain her request, he supposed. “What do you mean, precisely?”

“Well, what was here before? Are there escape routes? Defensive retreats? Mines? Hazards?” She ticked off each point on her fingers. “Anything you could tell us would help.”

It was an unusually astute question. Solas returned her smile with a small one of his own. “I’ll see what I can find.”

She inclined her head. “Ma serannas.”

It was good to hear the language of the People spoken, even if only in this bastardized form. “Dareth shiral,” he replied.

After that, she came to see him at least once a day. Solas began to look forward to their conversations. She was curious and intelligent. At her prompting, he told her about the Fade, the places he’d traveled, and his thoughts on the Inquisition’s strategy. In turn, she confessed how overwhelmed she felt at times among the shemlen, and how absurd she found their invocation of Andraste.

From what he could tell, she enjoyed their conversations. Of course, it was impossible for him to actually sense the emotions of these people, who seemed like shadows of the People he knew and remembered. But her continued appearance on his doorstep seemed to indicate as much.

It was a pleasant enough distraction amidst the daily horrors of their fight against Corypheus. At least, until she started flirting with him.

They were sitting inside his cabin, resting before the fire and sharing a bottle of wine that Cullen had found in Haven’s basement. It was a sweeter white wine with notes of honey and licorice, and it left him feeling loose-limbed and easy; he could only assume it did something similar to her. Maybe that was the start of the problem.

“I’m going to have to find a new place to read,” he complained. “Josephine’s office used to be relatively quiet. But now that Variel girl is there all the time, and she keeps trying to talk to me. It’s an impossible distraction. And Josephine was not pleased, to say the least.”

She almost choked on her wine; after she swallowed, she started to laugh.

“What’s so amusing?”

“I’m sorry, it’s just—I assume this is the same Variel who follows you around the camp like a lost Mabari, yes?” Her eyes were dancing in the firelight, her voice lighter than he was accustomed to hearing it. “The one with a terrible crush on you?”

“What? No. Impossible.” Had he been aiding the Inquisition as Fen’Harel, it might’ve been a more reasonable proposition. There were always people attracted to that kind of power. But he had specifically chosen to join as Solas to minimize the attention he would draw. What lure was a moderately skilled apostate with an unhealthy interest in the Fade?

“Oh, yes. Very possible! Did you know, she stopped by my office the other day to ask what you liked? I think she intends to give you some kind of gift.”

Solas opened his mouth to speak, then stopped. In the past month there _had_ been a marked uptick in Variel’s visits to his cabin, often on one excuse or another. She made a point of going to meals with him when her errands found her by his cabin at certain times. Which, now that he thought about it, was unusually often. And had she ever, in fact, specified what her errands actually were?

“Fenedhis,” he muttered.

She smiled at him over her glass. “So you see it now?”

He waved a hand. “Yes, yes. I don’t understand _why_ , though. I’ve shown nothing beyond a polite interest in her! I’ve hardly tried to—to woo her, or charm her.”

She quirked an eyebrow, still smiling. “Ah, lethallin. Who says you would have to _try_?”

“Yes, well. I am hardly the only one with admirers,” he noted, giving her a small smile in return. It was only after the words were out that he realized, with some startlement: _She’s flirting with me_.

They traded a few quips about her own retinue of hopefuls before she excused herself for the night, leaving him alone with the rest of the wine and his thoughts.

He stared at the dregs in his glass. “‘Who says you would have to _try_?’” he murmured, and snorted. A smile tugged at the edge of his mouth, then faded as he sighed. For the first time, it seemed, since he had joined the Inquisition he felt the full weight of the Din’anshiral settle over him.

The pleasant mood of the evening evaporated, replaced by something darker. _Unreasonble_ , he thought, rubbing his forehead. Why should it feel weightier now? _Nothing has changed. This was always your task. Your choice._

As he cleaned up, he decided that it was just her jesting remark that had unsettled him. It was unexpected; that was all. Not her wit, or her humor—he had come to know those well enough over the months of their acquaintance—but her interest in him.

_If_ it was that. Certainly, people were capable of flirting without any actual interest, himself included on more than one occasion. If she was interested in him, though, perhaps it was something he should have anticipated. They had grown closer, after all. To the extent he could, he considered her a friend.

He decided, in the end, to discuss the situation with Wisdom. When he closed his eyes and slipped into the Fade, he found the spirit where he usually did: by the lake near the Fade’s version of Haven, trailing its fingers in the water.

“Hello, old friend,” he said, walking over.

“Solas.” The spirit looked up at him and smiled, the gauzy magic that formed it flickering. “It is my pleasure, as always. Is there something you would like to discuss?”

He took a seat beside it, letting his gaze drift over the water. It took him some time to find his words, but Wisdom was patient as well as wise. “I am finding it difficult to live amongst these people,” he admitted at last.

Wisdom cocked its head, drawing its fingers out of the water. “How so?”

He sighed. “They feel like shadows to me. Half-real. It is…disturbing. Like seeing a world full of walking, talking corpses.”

The part of him that was always probing, always prodding, questioned the words even as they left his mouth. He thought of his friend in his cabin, carefully picking over the dossiers that Cullen, Leliana, and Josephine had prepared for her before asking his opinion and weighing her options. He didn’t always _agree_ with her choices, but there was a reason for every choice she made and none he could objectively fault. She was thoughtful. Intelligent, with a keen wit.

It was growing harder to believe that she was half a person. And though she was the person he knew best in the Inquisition, he had found things to admire in all (well, most) of their people. Cassandra’s bravery. Josephine’s insight. Cullen’s determination. Leliana’s cunning.

“You doubt,” Wisdom said, its voice like a sigh.

“I do.” He shifted to look at his friend. “It is not a comfortable thing. If I’m wrong, and they are capable of the same thought and feeling as the People, then I’m condemning more than mere shadows.”

“When you chose to walk the Din’anshiral, you knew it would not be easy. Or simple.”

He nodded. “That is true.”

They lapsed into silence for some time, until Wisdom placed a hand on his arm. “Is something else troubling you, Solas?”

“Perhaps,” he allowed. “There is one person there who I consider a friend, if such can be said.”

The spirit radiated amusement. “Friends are always trouble.”

Solas chuckled. “Undoubtedly.” His laughter faded, though, and he sighed. “I worry she may have developed an interest in me.”

“Then she is suspicious? You are concerned she will uncover your secret?”

“What?” He scowled. “No, no. A romantic interest. I am worried she might be developing feelings for me.”

“Oh.” Wisdom tilted its head, pondering his words. “I think I need to know more. Why would that be a problem?”

“You know I wish to limit the harm I cause to this world, at least until I tear down the Veil. That applies to its people as well. I don’t wish to cause her pain, any more than I wish to cause this world unnecessary pain.”

“I see.” Wisdom paused, considering. “Are you worried that you might develop feelings for her in return, Solas?”

For a moment, Solas wondered: _Would it be possible?_ Within seconds, though, he dismissed the idea. This world, its people—they were all blunt, dull edges, shaded in grays. Fond as he’d grown of his friend, he couldn’t envision a situation in which he considered her an equal, in which he might come to love her. Even if she were able to love him.

“No. I am not.”

Wisdom made a thoughtful noise. “Then surely you can continue this friendship. As you admit, you are still unsure whether she feels anything more than friendship for you. If her feelings grow stronger, you can simply let her know that you do not, and cannot, reciprocate.”

The tension in his shoulders loosened. An obvious solution, really. Why hadn’t he seen it himself? “Yes. That is true. Thank you, Wisdom. As always, you’ve provided invaluable counsel.”

“You know it is my pleasure to dispense it.” As Solas went to stand, Wisdom reached out and took his hand. “Pride,” the spirit said, its voice unusually grave. “Be wary.”

“I will,” he promised.

* * *

To his immense relief, nothing seemed to change. At least, not immediately.

She was just as friendly as before. She still sought him out, both to satisfy her own curiosity and to request his advice. She made no more attempts to flirt with him, which was largely a relief. Largely, because it was in his nature to wonder about alternate paths. How would events unfold if she developed feelings for him? He would never know and though it was certainly for the best, it was still a future foreclosed. A small loss, the kind that occurred every day.

It was just as well, in the end.

* * *

Things began to change after Redcliffe.

Solas didn’t travel through time with her, but he was there when she and Dorian reemerged. They were only gone for a matter of moments, but he was surprised at the strength of his feelings during those few seconds: the gut-wrenching panic, followed by a wave of despair and then a searing relief.

(Later, when he probed his reaction, he determined it was attributable to shock. A foolish conclusion, in hindsight.)

She and Dorian looked haggard, but relatively unharmed. That was fortunate. As his heartbeat slowed, he began considering the questions he would ask her later. He wouldn’t have thought it possible for a human mage such as Dorian or Alexius to open rifts through time. Her experiences in that alternate future might provide him with the context needed to unravel that mystery, assuming she was willing to share them.

They returned to Haven that night with the mages, and Solas dutifully waited until the following morning to seek her out. He assumed that was enough time for her to recover from whatever she’d experienced in the alternate future.

She had her own cabin in Haven. When he reached it, he saw that the shutters were closed, as was the door. Still, he reasoned, he could knock.

There was no response to his first knock, or his second. Solas knew he should leave. It would be rude to press his luck, but in truth, the events at Redcliffe had unnerved him. _I’ll try the handle_ , he thought. _If it’s locked, I’ll leave._

It was not locked. The handle turned and Solas eased in, closing the door behind him. When he saw what greeted him, he realized why she hadn’t responded to his knocks: she was seated at her table, her head in her hands as her body shook with sobs that hung, ragged, in the air.

If she hadn’t heard his knocks, though, she _did_ hear him step in. She looked at him, her eyes widening before she put her back to him. “Please—” she tried to say, but she couldn’t seem to get the words out between breaths. “Please—”

He froze, briefly too surprised to move. And then his body seemed to remember the motions expected of him, and he was walking towards her, pulling a chair up to the table beside her. “What’s wrong?” he asked, keeping his voice low. She just shook her head, turning her head away from him as another sob escaped her lips. Tentatively, he put a hand on her shoulder. Just a light touch, but something to steady her. “Take your time, lethallan. I can wait.”

As he sat there, waiting for her to finish crying, he was struck by the sheer absurdity of the situation. Here he was, offering comfort to a person with only the most limited comprehension of sentiment—of sorrow, or joy, or fear, or relief. He might as well go to the stables and pat one of Dennett’s horses on its nose. It was a useless exercise. If he left now, she would likely forgive him. Perhaps she even _wanted_ him to leave; she hadn’t made any effort to keep him in the room. _I should go_ , he thought.

Somehow, though, he couldn’t bring himself to leave.

Solas stayed until her sobs turned to sniffles, at which point he passed her a dirty shirt lying on the floor.  (Their fearless leader was not, it seemed, the cleanest of tenants.) She blew her nose in it and cleaned up her face, then tossed the shirt back on the ground.

“I’m sorry,” she said. Her voice came out hoarse. He frowned. _How long had she been crying?_ “You didn’t need to see that.”

“It’s my fault,” he heard himself say. “I intruded.”

She gave him a wan smile. “That you did. But please, don’t feel any obligation to stay. I’ll be fine.”

She was giving him the opportunity to leave. Now was the time to go. Instead, he found himself pulling his chair closer to hers. “What happened?”

For a minute, he thought that she wouldn’t answer. He was on the verge of excusing himself when she sighed, leaning back in her chair, and began to speak. “The future we went to was…bleak. I saw people I cared about, there, and all of them were dying. And not just dying, but dying in truly horrific ways. It’s not something I’ll ever forget.”

He frowned. “Corypheus won, in this future?” That should be impossible. Even if she were gone, surely he would be able to defeat Corypheus once he recovered his strength. Maybe the anchor was more important than he’d initially calculated.

“Yes. Before, I knew it would be bad if we lost, but I didn’t know how bad it would be. Now I know _exactly_ what will happen if we fail. And it’s worse than anything I imagined.”

“We won’t fail.” He reached out, taking one of her hands in his own. She looked surprised, but didn’t resist. “The Inquisition is strong, and growing stronger every day. We _will_ stop Corypheus.”

There was a pause. “I have to believe that.” She straightened, squeezing his hand before withdrawing her own. “Ma serannas, lethallin.”

He could read the subtle dismissal in her posture. Almost, he felt he could see her reassembling the walls she kept around herself. “I’ll take my leave,” he said, standing. “Dareth shiral, lethallan.”

A burgeoning truth was blooming like their Blight in his chest, sick and poisonous, but he was able to keep it at bay until he reached his cabin. As soon as he crossed the threshold, though, it roared through him, terrible enough that he felt he might split apart under the weight of it. He stumbled to his bed, rolling onto it so that he faced the wall, drawing his knees to his chest.

_She is a Person._

_She is one of the People._

Looking back, he wasn’t sure when he’d begun to understand that she thought and felt the same as he did. As the People did. Probably, he realized, it had been happening for a while. How long had he been in denial, telling himself she didn’t feel as he did? Couldn’t, in fact, feel as he did? He understood, with a bitterness so strong he could almost taste it like bile in his mouth, that it was only his own reaction to her grief that had forced him to acknowledge what he suspected he’d already known, and had for some time.

_She is a Person_.

Worse, the corollary. _If she is a Person, then are they all People?_

And worse still: even if they were, it didn’t matter. His task remained. He would walk the Dinan’shiral or die trying.

* * *

Something changed between them after that. Perhaps he was more courteous, aware, as he was now, that she possessed a depth of feeling equivalent to his. Perhaps he was simply more aware of her, now that he was looking for subtle clues to her feelings in the way she moved or spoke. It was strange after spending so long with spirits to interact with someone who didn’t project her emotions.

Once or twice, she flirted with him. It was always light, playful, and she never pressed it. He couldn’t deny that her attention was flattering. She was objectively beautiful (for what that was worth), and had she wanted to, she could’ve easily found someone to share her bed. Instead, she kept herself apart. As far as he could tell, he was her closest friend in the Inquisition.

Then came Corypheus and the flight to Skyhold.

He told her what he dared about the orb, probably more than was safe. But he understood now, in a way he hadn’t before, the threat that Corypheus posed. She needed to be as prepared as he could make her without exposing himself.

Once they were safely ensconced in Skyhold, she sought him out and asked to know more. That night, he found her in the Fade and took her to Haven.

As he seemed to do time and again, he gave her more than he meant to. He told her the truth: that she changed the world. His world. That in knowing her, everything had changed. He left unsaid how it had changed. That now, he knew the true price of what he sought.

He did not intend it as a declaration of affection, but that was how she took it.

“Sweet talker,” she said, and turned his face to hers, pressing her lips against his.

He froze, briefly overwhelmed by surprise. Taking it as his responsive, she ducked her head and drew back, and he—he acted on instinct. He pulled her towards him, as close as he could, until he could feel the heat of her body through their clothes. And he found her mouth with his, her lips meeting his with a hunger that sent desire crashing through him.

For a few seconds, he let the wolf rule him and he took what he wanted. And it was exquisite. The way her breasts pressed against him; the sound of her breathing, verging on ragged; the feel of her mouth, hot and sweet, when he slipped his tongue inside.

He wanted to devour her.

The urge was so strong that it stunned him, which also had the fortunate side effect of shocking him back to his senses. Reluctantly, he released her.

“We shouldn’t. It isn’t right. Not even here.”

Of course, he knew she was stubborn. So it wasn’t terribly surprising when she sought him out in the rotunda to ask what the kiss meant for them.

He _was_ surprised, however, by the clench in his chest when she said, “I’m willing to take that chance, if you are.”

_If you are._ He knew then that she would never push, never insist. What was more, she was ensuring that he knew it too. Whatever decision he made, she would respect it. He was struck anew by what a remarkable person she was. If she wanted him, as she seemed to, she could have demanded him. Already, she was too important to the Inquisition for him to refuse. Had she insisted, he would’ve acquiesced and done his best to limit their interactions as best he could without outright refusing her. He’d seen the same and worse with the evanuris, time and again.

But no. Instead, she’d made her interest plain and then left the choice in his hands. She wasn’t just a Person, he realized. She was a rare one.

Solas considered asking Wisdom for its counsel on how he should proceed, but he found reasons to avoid seeing the spirit readily enough. Part of him suspected that he did so because he believed Wisdom would tell him what he already knew: that this could only end in tragedy for both of them.

But then Wisdom was gone and it was just him, and her, and somehow she seemed to understand the depth of his grief. She stayed silent as he executed the mages who’d killed his friend. She gave him the time alone that he requested. And when he returned to Skyhold, she said, “The next time you have to mourn, you don’t need to be alone.”

Perhaps it was inevitable, then, that he realized the truth of it on her balcony. She was unlike anyone he’d met in his long life and he was in love with her, foolish as that might be. He wouldn’t lose her. Not now. Not yet. The rest—what would happen after they retook his orb from Corypheus—he could think about later.

_Ar lath ma, vhenan._

* * *

After that, they began in earnest. She spent more time in his company, and he in hers. Whenever they had a private moment, they shared what they could with each other. Solas never offered more than a kiss, though, and she never pressed—even though he knew, and knows, that she wants him. He has experience in such things, after all, and he can tell: from the way her eyes slide over his figure; the way her hand lingers on his; even the clench of her muscles when he places distance between them.

He won’t let her give herself to him like that. Not with this lie between him. He’s crossed many lines in his quest to walk the Dinan’shiral, but he vows that this will not be one of them.

Unfortunately, noble ideals aside, he still has needs.

Which is how he finds himself in a small tent that smells of cured leather somewhere in the Exalted Plains, slipping a hand down his pants. He still finds the whole thing humiliating and juvenile, but he’s had practice at least. When he took on the mantle of Dread Wolf, he knew that he wouldn’t be able to have attachments, even casual ones. Anyone who came into contact with him would be at risk. Which meant that he was handling his own needs, so to speak, long before he created the Veil.

It’s easy enough to slip into a fantasy. The one he chooses on this night is a treasured favorite, centering around Halamshiral. Their night at the Winter Palace brought back a wave of memories he thought he buried when he became Fen’Harel. Memories of balls and ambrosia, dancing and intrigue. And women. He’d been insatiable when he was younger. More than once, he’d convinced a woman to let him have her in the shadow of a stairwell, or behind a conveniently-placed statute. Anywhere with a modicum of privacy. Godhood went to one’s head.

But Halamshiral was different. He recalled clearly following her into the ballroom, bristling at the thinly-veiled sneers that accompanied her entrance. He knew that elves were not afforded much respect in this time, but she was the Inquisitor. She was, he sincerely believed, the best of them. And they barely deigned to acknowledge her presence.

She bore it well, at least. He spent most of the evening on the sidelines, observing the intrigue, and after a time his annoyance at the Orlesians’ smug superiority faded into a strange kind of nostalgia. The world had been simpler, after all, when these were the only kinds of games that he played.

He reminds himself that this a _fantasy_. He doesn’t need to replay the evening in its entirety. He just needs the end, which he’s used as inspiration more than once.

Clear as day, he recalls stepping onto the balcony and seeing her back turned to him. The formal garb that Josephine has selected is not the most becoming of outfits, but she makes it look good. The cut flatters her figure, emphasizing the lean lines of her muscles, the nimble grace of her body.

That night, he went up to her and asked her to dance. They did, on the balcony, and it is a memory he cherishes: a small bit of peace in a world going mad. But it was not what he _wanted_ to do, and that is what he imagines now.

Solas treads softly, but she has a hunter’s hearing. He sees her turn her head. Just slightly. _Good_ , he thinks. He doesn’t want to surprise her. He moves behind her, placing his hands on her waist. A light touch, nothing more. But she stiffens, and when he leans forward she shivers against him. He bows his head, enough that his mouth is next to her ear.

“Would you like to dance, ma vhenan?” he asks.

He moves his hands down as he asks, just an inch or two. She goes rigid, but not from shock or hesitation. She’s aroused. He can tell from the way her breathing changes, the way her muscles tense beneath his hands, and a thousand other minor ways. He moves his mouth down, pressing his lips to her neck, enjoying the taste of her.

When she doesn’t respond immediately, he tightens his grip on her waist. “Vhenan?”

She draws in a sharp breath. “Yes. Yes. Out here?”

He chuckles. “Oh, no. This is much too private for what I had in mind.” When she twists to look at him, an eyebrow raised in a question, he continues. “I thought we could give the nobles something to talk about. At least for the next week or so.” He draws his hands back, on the pretense of adjusting her sash in case anyone is watching.

“The Inquisitor, dancing with her ‘elven manservant’? Josephine will _kill_ me.”

“Kill us,” he corrects, and she laughs. “I promise to accept the blame. In any case, you’ve already accomplished what you set out to do. If you set a few tongues wagging now, what does it matter?”

He watches her grip on the balcony’s railing tighten, some internal struggle ongoing inside her. “Fine,” she says. “Fine! But if Josephine asks, this was your idea.”

“So it was.” He steps back, and holds out his hand for her to take. “Come with me, vhenan.”

He leads her into the ballroom, past pockets of tittering nobles and wide-eyed clusters of servants. The former go quiet as they past; the latter start to grin, a few even whooping.

(What? It’s his fantasy, after all.)

She looks delighted, her small smile growing as she sees the light in their faces. When she turns to him, she is radiant, and his heart clenches like a fist in his chest. She deserves to feel this way in _her_ world, not just his half-starved fantasies of a happiness he knows he can never truly bring her.

But that’s not the point of this exercise, and if he’s going to control himself the next time she kisses him he needs to press forward; his control has been fraying lately as it is. Besides, they’ve reached the floor. He doesn’t recognize the music playing, which is strange, but she seems to know it. Her grin, already impossibly wide, seems to grow.

“Shall we dance, Inquisitor?” he asks, the corner of his mouth quirking into a smile.

“If you’ll have me,” she demurs, fluttering her eyelashes. Solas loves seeing her this way, playful and easy. It doesn’t happen often, these days.

He uses his grip on her hand to draw her close as the court hushes around them. He slides his free hand to her shoulder as he raises the other, bringing her near enough to him that he can whisper in her ear, just for their benefit: “I’ll have you any way you let me, vhenan.”

Her free hand has gone to his shoulder, and he feels her fingers dig into his skin. In this position her own mouth is close to his ear, but even still, he can barely hear her as she whispers, “Don’t tease me, Solas.”

_Solas_ , instead of her usual _vhenan_. Rarely has his own name felt like such a curse. There’s real pain in her voice—which is surprisingly dark, even for his fantasies. But perhaps it’s not so surprising, after all. 

She wants him. Has wanted him, for a very long time. He’s seen the way her eyes move down his body after they part from a kiss, the reluctance spelled in every line of her body as he pulls back. The way her body _tightens_ when he approaches her, which is its own kind of exquisite torment for him. He’s never offered her an explanation for why he defers, time and again. And his heart—his heart is too kind. She’s never commented on it, never asked him for an explanation. She’s simply accepted it as part of their relationship.

Something painful arcs through him, and he tightens his grip on her hand. “Not tonight, vhenan. Tonight, you can have whatever you want from me.”

“I want you,” she says.

Her mouth is close enough to his ear that he can hear her lick her lips, and just the sound of it ignites something in him. He grips her hand, tighter than he intends. “Tonight, I’m yours,” he murmurs. And to make sure she understands that whatever she wants will be freely given, he pulls her closer so he can be sure she hears the words he says next. “Please, vhenan. Don’t doubt that I want you. Trust me when I say that I do.”

She swallows with a click, then nods. “I trust you,” she says.

The words are like knives to his heart, but he buries that pain. “Then let us dance.”

Josephine insisted that everyone attending the ball take dance lessons, even Cassandra and Cullen, who plodded through their paces with matching scowls on their faces, stepping on each other’s toes while Josephine tried to correct their posture and Leliana laughed so hard that tears came to her eyes.

Now, the practice serves him in good stead. The kind of dancing he did in Arlathan was not something he could imagine doing with the Inquisitor at Halamshiral. The Orlesian steps, strange as they are, are more appropriate to this particular fantasy. She moves through them with her usual grace, caught up in the dance.

Solas enjoys things like this: the simple pleasure of dancing with her, moving in tandem, their bodies synchronized in a way that satisfies something primal in him. He could dance with her for decades, he thinks. But he also knows that only has an hour or so for his fantasies if he actually wants to sleep tonight, and so he moves forward.

As the music swells, he introduces a dip. It startles her, but as she’s told him before, she trusts him. She relaxes into it, letting him lower her. The crowd begins to applaud (a small vanity of his), and before they can stop, he pulls her up and draws her to him in a single, fluid movement. She gasps and he swallows it with a kiss.

He’s desperate for her by this point, and she’s just as hungry for  him. His hands move down her back as she arches into his touch, her own hands cradling his head as she locks them together. Her lips are hot on his, her tongue hotter. Her entire body radiates heat. She seeks contact with him wherever he offers it, her hands trailing down his chest, and it isn’t long until he begins to grow hard against her.

Reluctantly, he breaks the kiss. When he pulls back, he sees her face is flushed, her breathing ragged. “Perhaps a less public forum,” he suggests, his voice hoarse.

“Yes,” she breathes.

The crowd is a mass of scandalized whispers, but it parts for them as they stalk to her room hand in hand. Because this is his fantasy Josephine is not, thankfully, hot on their heels. They reach her rooms unmolested, the crowd falling off until it’s just them before her door. She withdraws the key from her pocket, turns it in the lock, and opens the door. He follows her inside, shutting the door softly behind them.

They are alone, which is rare enough in and of itself given the demands on their time and his own, self-imposed limitations on their contact. So when she comes to him, he holds her at arm’s length and takes the opportunity to simply touch her in ways he won’t allow himself to touch her in public: he runs his hands down her arms; her waist; the flare of her hips, and then back up to her face, cupping it in his hands. She leans into the touch, closing her eyes and pressing a gentle kiss to his palm.

Chaste as it is, even that is enough to send a jolt of arousal through him. Solas rubs his thumb along the curve of her cheekbone. “What would you have me do, vhenan?” he asks, voice low.

In the end, this is his wildest fantasy: that he can, in fact, give her everything she wants. That for a few hours he can be the man she deserves, even if only in the privacy of his own mind.

Most often, in his fantasies, she gives him a series of explicit commands. Undress. Touch me here; now there. Your hands along my hips. My thighs. Your lips to my navel. Lower. And so on. Something akin to the slow seduction he would have favored her with were they still in Arlathan, with centuries before them to explore one another.

But this time she just moves closer to him, snaring the soft fabric of his outfit in her fingers. “Please,” she whispers. “I want you. However you’ll have me. _Please_.”

The need in her voice lights something within him. Any thoughts of a slow seduction vanish as he jerks her towards him, fumbling with her sash as his mouth finds her neck. She arches into him, swallowing a gasp as he yanks off her sash and moves onto her coat. His patience is a practiced thing but it evaporates in the face of his sudden, overwhelming need to have her skin against his, to feel her outside and in.

He’s backing her towards the bed as he undresses her, and her hands have moved up to his shoulders for balance. The angle brings her lips close to his ear. The part of him that’s not lost in desire realizes she’s speaking to him, whispering endearments. “Vhenan, ma vhenan. Ar lath ma. Emma lath.”

He does his best to focus less on the words and more on the feel of her, as even in his fantasies they’re bittersweet words. How miraculous it is, to know she feels the same. How painful it is, to know that he is completely unworthy of her devotion. How devastating it is, to know that neither her feelings nor his will matter, in the end.

They reach the bed just as he pulls off her coat, helping her slip her arms out of the sleeves. She laughs, breathless, as he makes short work of her breastband, slipping it down her torso with a practiced twist of his fingers. There’s amusement in her voice as she asks, “Done this before?”

“Not like this,” he murmurs, leaving the rest unsaid. _Not with someone like you. Not with someone I loved. Not with my heart._

He must sound serious, because her smile fades. “Solas—”

He swallows the rest with a kiss, pressing his mouth to hers. She doesn’t resist him, parting her lips for him and then moaning into his mouth as he cups her right breast in one hand, using the other to lower her onto the bed as he thumbs her nipple. He follows her onto it, pulling her into the center. He’s always surprised by how light she is, given the strength within her.

He sits back, removing his own coat as she watches, her mouth open. Her eyes are glazed, her breathing heavy. That alone spurs him on and he tosses his coat to the ground, his hands going to her trousers. She lifts her hips to help him as he slides first them, and then her smallclothes, off of her until she’s naked before him.

He’s imagined her naked before, of course; he’s never claimed to be a saint, Andrastian or otherwise. For whatever reason, though, this time feels real in a way that leaves him breathless. She is so _beautiful_ , every line of her body honed to its purpose. His fingers trace the scars on her body, drawn to their lines. “I would take these from you, if I could,” he murmurs.

Nevermind that he’ll likely give her more himself, when all is said and done.

“Vhenan, _please_ ,” she groans, arching into his touch.

How can he ignore her command? He can give her precious little, but at least this is within his power. “As you wish.”

She must see the glint of mischief in his eyes, though, because she frowns. She opens her mouth, likely to ask a question, but before she can speak he’s between her legs, his mouth on her. Anything she planned to say is lost in a strangled noise as she digs her hands into the sheets, bucking against him.

He’s not entirely proud of the centuries he spent wallowing in the more sensual pleasures, but they have their uses. They allowed him, for example, to refine some…skills into something close to an art form, and if anyone is worthy of reaping those rewards it is her. Hearing her unravel like this, feeling her body shake beneath his mouth and tongue—it’s both a remarkable privilege and brutally arousing. He was already half hard before they reached the bed, and now he’s straining against his trousers.

“ _Vhenan_ ,” she gasps as he slips a finger into the wet heat of her, facing almost no resistance. When he crooks it inside her, spilling some of his magic into her as he does, she goes rigid and cries out, her climax washing over her. But he doesn’t stop there. Instead, he presses a second finger into her, working her through another orgasm as she sobs, begging for relief. It’s only when she shudders and goes boneless that he withdraws, licking his lips before he leans back and fumbles with the buttons on his trousers, putting a hand down them to chase his own release.

When she sees him, she makes a noise of protest. “What are you doing?”

He raises an eyebrow, looking up at her. “What does it look like I’m doing?” he asks wryly.

“Isalan pala na. Solas. Vhenan.” She meets his eyes, still breathing hard between words. “ _Please_. I want to feel you inside me.”

He closes his eyes, shuddering with the sudden, sharp _need_ that threatens to overwhelm him. “You’re certain—”

“ _Yes_.”

That’s all the permission he needs. He strips his pants and then crawls over her, locking eyes with her as he reaches for her right breast. But she’s evidently impatient—gratifyingly so—because she intercepts his hand, pulling him closer to her. “Later,” she breathes. “Do that later.”

A smile plays at the corner of his mouth. “Eager, ma vhenan?”

She exhales, half laughter and half frustration. She rubs her finger against his wrist where she holds him as she says, voice low, “I’ve wanted you since the day I saw you.”

Solas goes still. He didn’t know that. But he finds that now that he does, he wants to know more. Even if it means a slight delay in their lovemaking. “When?”

She sighs, evidently exasperated, but she’s smiling as she says, “You’re surprisingly vain, sometimes.”

Well, if she thinks he’s vain _now_ , he’s glad she never met his younger self. “I’d appreciate an answer, ma vhenan.” As a reminder of what they’re postponing, he slips a hand between them, running his thumb down her stomach, past her navel, and then between her legs, skimming the surface of her.

She inhales sharply. “Fine. I asked if Varric was with the Chantry and you laughed.”

He can’t help but be amused. “ _That_ was when you decided you wanted me?”

“Why is that so surprising?” She raises her free hand to cup his cheek. “You have a beautiful laugh, you know.”

He’s received countless compliments over the course of his long, long life, but that may be a new one. Something in him breaks, or cracks, and he falls on her, capturing her mouth with his. He starts to lower his hand to position himself only to find that hers are already there, guiding him into her.

This doesn’t happen in most of his fantasies. Most of his fantasies revolve around him giving _her_ pleasure. Maybe that’s the reason that this feels different in a way he can’t describe, strangely real. Physical. Sensual. The way her thighs strain around his hips as he slides into her. The strangled cry she makes as he does. The way her hips buck into him. The feel of her nails scraping down his chest as he moves and she arches, her lips moving in soundless words.

He’s half out of his mind with the feel of her, the warmth and the pressure, the way she’s shaking beneath him, but he has enough clarity to know he wants to hear what she’s saying. He frees a hand and slips it behind her neck, pulling them close enough that he can hear her. He isn’t gentle about it, but she doesn’t seem to mind.

“…oh, _oh_. Please, ma vhenan. Harder. _Please_. I’m so close.” She devolves into elvish then, endearments and smatters of prayers that amount more to pleas, including one to Fen’Harel that nearly breaks his concentration. But then she moves underneath him, pressing up into him, and he’s lost again in the feel of her.

Seconds later she clenches around him, her entire body tensing as she climaxes. Solas follows, burying his face in her breasts as he spills himself inside of her. And then he just…stays. Enjoying the contact, the feeling of being close to her in all the ways he wants but can’t have.

He’s unsure how long they stay joined like that, but at some point she starts moving her hands over him, tracing her fingers over his ear. As he manages to sit back and pull out, she whispers, “Ar lath ma, vhenan.”

He closes his eyes, waiting for the misery he feels to pass. Here, like this, the words are a knife through his heart. _And isn’t that appropriate_ , he thinks, because the blade will cut both of them: his heart and _his heart_.

Solas opens his eyes. “Ar lath ma,” he murmurs, raising a hand to card his fingers through her hair. She smiles and it undoes him, despair already threatening to rise in his chest. _Time for this to end._ In a way, he’s surprised it hasn’t ended already. Usually this is around the time he lets things trail off.

“Stay with me,” she says, and he wants to stay. He always wants to stay, though he never lets himself linger. But this time he does, lying down beside her and curling against her. He can smell her sweat, feel it damp on her skin. He rests a hand on her hip, rubbing a thumb along the ridge of her pelvis.

He lets himself drift, focusing only on the slow rise and fall of her breath, the way her skin cools beneath his hands as her heart slows. He’s focused enough on the simple presence of her beside him that he almost misses it when she speaks again, her voice hardly a whisper.

“I know this is a dream,” she says, and he goes rigid.

No. _No._

“I expect you’re off exploring the Fade.” There’s a fondness in her tone that he has never, ever deserved. “I know you’re not really here with me. But I wish you were, ma vhenan.”

He wakes up in his tent, his sheets sticky and soaked with sweat.

* * *

Within seconds of waking he plunges back into his dreams, desperate for the kind of release he can’t allow himself in the waking world. Desperate to distract himself from the anguish roaring through him, overwhelming and all-consuming.

He’s on all fours before he can think, snarling and howling as he races through the Fade, red eyes glowing as his paws churn the earth below him. The Dread Wolf once again, fittingly enough.

_The one thing I swore not to do, and I did it._

Nevermind that she didn’t know, and hopefully never would. _He_ knew his failure.

And failure it was; he should have known. Should have realized that he was in a shared dream, as opposed to the confined spaces of his own mind. There were so many clues. Things he ignored. Intentionally ignored, most likely, in his selfish desire to have her in whatever way he could.

The music that she recognized and he didn’t.

Her desire to be with him, as opposed to letting him pleasure her.

The scars on her body. She’s never had scars before in his fantasies. He’s never seen her unclothed before, after all, and why would he imagine scars that weren’t there? Why would he add to her hardship in a fantasy?

The things she told him, things that he didn’t already know. _You have a beautiful laugh, you know._

How real everything felt.

And he knew—he _knew_ —how thin the Veil was in the Exalted Plains. He should have anticipated this. He should have controlled himself.

He thinks of his words to her, months ago: _I am not often thrown by things by things that happen in dreams._ Perhaps she has a gift for it, his heart. Refrained until they returned to Skyhold.

A spirit tries to keep pace with him as he runs. He snarls, snapping his jaws at it, and the thing pulls back. He feels too wild, too volatile, to let anything near him right now.

_I should never have let her near_ , he thinks, and howls again as he races through the Fade.

* * *

He isn’t sure how long he runs or even where he is, but eventually he slows and then stops, curling into a ball, his tail twitching. Foolish, to be here like this. The last thing he needs is to have spirits gossiping about Fen’Harel’s return. But he finds the idea of being in human form—of being _Solas_ —too painful to contemplate right now.

He’s still the wolf when Cole finds him, materializing a few feet from him. Solas glances at him, then closes his eyes.

_Leave, Cole.  Please._

“He feels it in his gut, the guilt: gaping, growing. The wolf howls, because the man can’t speak. Won’t speak. He leaves her with questions. Real or not? She doubts herself. How could it be real, when—”

With each of Cole’s words, something in his chest squeezes tighter and _tighter_ until he feels like he can’t move, can’t breathe. Like he’s paralyzed or petrified. Turned to stone and shattered. _Cole,_ please, he thinks, interrupting the spirit. _Stop this. This isn’t helping._

Cole stops talking but takes a seat beside him, the brim of his hat shading the wolf. Solas opens his eyes and stares mournfully up at his friend.

“I could make you forget,” Cole suggests. “Or I could make her forget! I could—”

_NO_. The thought blasts out of him as a growl rises in his chest of its own accord, low and threatening. _I’ve already committed one violation tonight. I have no desire to commit another, nor make you an accessory to either._

“You should tell her. Talk to her.”

_What good would that do? It’s just one more thing I’ll take from her, in the end._ There’s no need to dissemble with Cole; the spirit knows his plans to walk the Dinan’shiral and has from the beginning.

“It’s not something you can take,” Cole says softly. “It’s hers to give. She wanted to give it to you.”

He sighs, nostrils flaring. He considers Cole’s words, for minutes or hours. Time is flexible in the Fade. _Maybe_ , he concedes at last. _It’s possible I give myself too much credit._

“You worry that you’ll hurt her, but you can’t,” Cole insists. “Not like that. Because you are her heart and she is your heart, your heart is hers and hers is yours. Every time hers beats, she feels it like a promise in her chest. Vhenan. Vhenan. You should tell her the truth.”

Solas gives Cole a baleful look. He knows what the spirit means: not just _a_ truth, but _the_ truth. Not just the truth of their dream, but the truths beyond that. The evanuris. Arlathan and its fall. Fen’Harel. The Dinan’shiral.

_If I tell her the truth, she will hate me._

But Cole is shaking his head. “You give yourself _too much credit_ , her too little. You’ve seen her spirit. Bright and big, wise like Wisdom was. She sees the facets of a problem, not just the light reflecting off the sides. How will you know, unless you tell her?”

_I…won’t._

Cole rests a hand on his head, patting him like a puppy, and Solas decides to tolerate it. In his own way, Cole always gives wise counsel. It’s possible he’s underestimating her. It wouldn’t be the first time, unfortunately.

Maybe he could tell her the truth. Tell her _everything_. A kernel of hope, faint and damning, lodges in his heart.

Maybe he will.

_Maybe._


End file.
